This was posted on my personal blog around the 20th anniversary of OJC.

It's my version and my opinions, everyone elses mileage may vary.

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt

Many of you who read this know that quote above and many of you know that I have always subscribed to the "Quiet Professional" ethos that was beat into my head as a young Ranger. I don't talk much if at all about any of my accomplishments or things I did or participated in. I will share humor that is relatable simply because we can all relate to it. I don't see my accomplishments as worthy to stand with the warriors of today.

But as 12 /20 approaches and as the 20th anniversary of Just Cause has arrived, I look back and realize that I have stood in the arena, my face has been marred by dust, sweat and blood. I have know the greatest of enthusiasms and devotions and spent myself in a worthy cause. And I have dared greatly and my place will never be with those cold timid souls who neither know victory or defeat.

So, for this weekend, I'll hold my shoulders a little further back, I'll stand a little taller and I'll share a story with those great men who I was lucky to have served side by side with.

The apartment was 800 square feet. It was just off Abercorn, past the Krystal Burger about 4 miles from the Hunter Army Airfield Gate. It was 2 bed room, 1 bath decorated in junior enlisted "motif". The couch was a twin bed with plastic milk crates for end tables. The recently purchased enterainment center was warping under the weight of the television as only Wal Mart craftsmanship can. The dining room table was chrome and bamboo put together with an allen wrench also purchased at Wal Mart.

1989 had been a busy year for myself and 1/75 Rangers. We deployed early in the year to Panama for the Jungle Operations Training Course, then I would head off to Ranger School which with Pre- Ranger comes to about 90 days. Shortly after that return we deployed to Jordan to train with their special forces. It seems right after that we began a JRT rotation with all the other special operations forces. Which led right up to December the 15th. Married 1 year, home about 3 months. Oh and just like a Ranger, I almost forgot, Erica was born in August of 1989, so a busy year indeed and I was ready for block leave.

We were finally getting Christmas leave and the parents had chipped in to purchase the tickets for us 4 to fly home. This JRT rotation was interesting as typically each module was a different objective somewhere in the world / US that we would fly away to and rehearse a different mission. This time we kept hitting the same objective, just in different locations. The last one was in Florida and the pyro that was on the objective was quite impressive and there was actually a C130 on the concrete runway we were jumping. Usually, for saftey, all aircraft were removed. Two things about this last mission. My Squad leader, John Malloy, landed on the wing of the C130, fell off and broke his shoulder. My good friend, Eddie Noland, lost his Kevlar helmet on the jump and I found it on the way to exfill, which means he owed me a case of beer. So, I was sad about John but happy about the beer. I was even more excited about block leave! Time to get some real mexican food in Texas, see La Famila and re charge the batteries. Two weeks later the train would be leaving the station and who knew what 1990 had in store.

I had one thing in my way, PLDC, Primary Leadership Development Course. It is the first in a series of mandated promotion schools run by Big Army. It is every Rangers nightmare. The thought process in those schools is nothing like we are used to and it is in most cases a waste of time. I was already Ranger qualified which is known as "The Army's premier Leadership School". And I had the damn thing the day after block leave. So, in the middle of the living room floor of the apartment, I had all my gear out. Getting it inspection ready as the entire course is pretty much a daily inspection. Taking tie downs off, removing tactical tape, etc. Call it a guess, but I was probably about 5 beers into a 6 pack as well.

The rest of the boys, were at a party at Doc Cooks house. If I did not have to get all my crap ready for the school, I would have been there with them. Then my phone rang... "Specialist Jurena..xxxxx notification". Now the call out rosted dictated who called you and this voice, though familar, was not the one who called me. So I said, "bullshit, who the hell is this". The response was "It's your Platoon Sergeant and this is not bullshit". It was then, at that very second, I knew. There was a huge knot in my stomach. I'd often heard the Grenada guys say, when it's real, you will know. And I always thought that was just macho talk, but I knew.

He then wanted to know if I knew where the rest of the boys were and of course I did. He told me to go get them. I don't remember what I told Lisa, the clock is ticking and I now have to get across town to round up what I knew were going to be shitfaced Rangers. I think I told her it was real, she asked about Texas, I said.."go". Then I had to gather up all my damn gear that I had just taken apart, shove into my duffel bag and I was gone. Married a year, gone again.

When I got to Doc Cook's house things were in full swing. Lots of booze and plenty of women. Some wives, some not. I pulled Dismus Myers aside who was the ranking E6 and my squad leader. He was trying to get me to do a shot when I whispered in his ear. He called bullshit at first and I told him, he could call bullshit all he wants but by this point we had 1 hour to be at work, or else. Dismus tossed all the broads out of the living room and told everyone the scoop. The place cleared out faster than if the boys had been caught with the Generals daughter and he had just come home.

As we approached HAAF, the activity everywhere told me all I needed to know. It was "Go" time.

December the 19th was typical South East weather. Cold and rainy, probably 40 degrees and alternating between a drizzle and a hard rain. Rehersals had to be done, manifests called and pre-jump completed. Though I will give my jumpmaster credit, he looked at the platform we were supposed to practice our falls off of and the standing water around it and said.."fuck it, we are not doing them". It was absolutely miserable.

The night prior was spent writing your "goodbye" letter and giving it to the person you wanted to deliver it. Honestly, I never wrote one. I think I told someone to tell my family I loved them, but I just was not going to sit down and write one last letter, it went against everything I learned as an athlete about visualizing your victory. I slept in Steve Ellison's room and we talked about life and beer and love and everything else, but I don't think he wrote a letter either. For all of us testosterone was not in short supply and we all felt bullet proof, at least at that moment.

As we stood there freezing, it was suddenly time to get your ammo issued. Now, I knew what "basic load" was but until they hand you a sand bag with it in there, you just don't realize that it is not or does not seem to be very much ammo. I'm thinking that if I'm jumping into someones country and I have to fight until I can get re-supplied, this sure does not seem like I'm going to last very long. Everyone felt the same way. Then we got the opportunity to ease our fears, this would prove to be a tactical error, but more on that later. Somehow, someone was able to get into the back of the ASP and start shuttling crates of ammo out the boys. Next thing you know we have way more ammo than we were supposed to have. In fact, I pretty much jettisoned everything out of my rucksack except, ammo, water and other squad items I would need. No food, no hygiene kit,nothing. Again, this would prove to be a bad move later. Speaking of food, the "last supper" at Sabre Hall was steak and lobster. That's right, fatten up the hogs before you lead them to slaughter. Another strange thing, it was like the entire clergy from Savannah was there, all wanting to pray over us, for us, etc. It was just an odd scene, a feast presided over by clergy, with like Motley Crue, Kick Start my Heart blasting in the back ground.

We broke off into chalks, hugged our buddies, shook their hands, looked them in the eyes and said, "I'll see you at the rally point". My machismo was a bit down at this point because honestly, you did not know if you were going to see them again or not. It was a bittersweet moment. Doors closed, finally some warmth as your BDU's were soaking wet. It was dark outside and in the bird, I can remember knowing we were gaining altitude over the Savannah mall wondering if anyone other then our families knew we were locked and loaded and going to invade another country.

Now if I was a SEAL, at this point, my writings would spend 5 or 6 chapters on the training that made me a Ranger. I think Marcus Luttrell has an amazing story but if I don't know how he got there, I've either not read another SEAL book or I missed the Trident on the front cover of his.

If you don't know "Us" or who we are, then perhaps navigate away or do a quick Google Search of "75th Ranger Regiment".

If you don't know the "why" then I would also suggest you do some quick internet research of why we invaded Panama. You will find multiple reasons all recoreded in the history books. Now let me give you the layman's version.

No soldier has ever assaulted a bunker in pursuit of any political ideology. Nor have we ever deployed based on our beliefs co-inciding with some politicians.

As "Hoot" from Black Hawk Down Says.."When I go home people'll ask me, "Hey Hoot, why do you do it man? What, you some kinda war junkie?" You know what I'll say? I won't say a goddamn word. Why? They won't understand. They won't understand why we do it. They won't understand that it's about the men next to you, and that's it. That's all it is." And there you have it, in its simplest form.

At that moment in time, I could care less about Panama. My Brothers had saddled up and I had trained with them, sweated with them and bled with them. At that moment in time, this was exactly were I was supposed to be. By the way, "Hoot" was not a fictional character, nor were most in that movie.

Somewhere, I started to get hot. The heat in the bird became stifiling and I was wearing my field jacket liner underneath my wet BDU's. I stood up to take it off and I almost fell down. The bird was under red lights, so it was a very "un real" environment. It was then I realized, that for the first time since junior high, I was having the onset of a migrane head ache. Here I was, part of the Praetorean Guard, rolling in a C141, outboard seats only, about to do Ceaser's work and I was having the worst head ache in 10 years. I was very concerned that in front of my boy's I was going to look weak, and honestly at this very moment I was. I pulled my 2 quart out and drank the entire thing. It had been cold and rainy and I'm pretty sure I drank only coffee all day. Amazing how quickly we forget all the things we know are important, like hydration.

I sat down and closed my eyes. I realized at this point.. I was scared. I'm not afraid to admit it, at least not now. I was going to exit this aircraft and invade a country that had declared war on us. People, were going to die and I could very well be one of those people. I was a city kid from a suburb of Houston and while this all sounded great after physical training, yelling "HooaH"! and talking about wanting to kick ass and take names, I was suddenly less than a few hours out from having to execute this plan. How I got here is another book or long blog post all together but as bad ass as I thought I was at this moment, I'm not sure I was ready to do this. I knew that I was concerned for my fire team, Derome West was right next to me and was to follow me out the door, just behind him was Russell, who was literally just out of RIP. My concern was that I would not be able to bring these guys back home alive. For whatever reason, the glass just seemed half empty on several fronts.

I have no real explanation for that, we trained harder and under more realistic conditions than the majority of the United States Army. We shot more live rounds and trained with more "sister" units than the majority of the United States Army. Perhaps it was because the squad was juggled around a bit as was our platoon. Our platoon sergeant, Stan Goff, had left us to got Special Forces assessment. Our platoon leader had blown himself up with a grenade just prior to the alert. My squad leader had broke his shoulder on the last rehearsal. So, Charlie 2, was a bit re-organized as was Charlie 2, Third squad.

At the time when I needed to be the strongest, I was internally weak and physically I had a head ache from the depths of hell. As I think back on what was wrong at this moment I can only come up with this. We all live under a social compact which in its simplest form says A. I won't steal your shit and B. I won't physically harm you. We typically abide by these because most people are good and also because we have some fear of consequences and or reprecussions. I think we all realize the natural order of the world is chaos or anarchy and we all prefer things to be a bit more copasetic. Now, here I was literally given a license to kill and break this social compact and the only reprecussions would be potential harm or death to myself or my team mates.It was weighing heavy on me that was for sure, to the point of physical illness.

Somewhere over the gulf of mexico we loitered until the sister units could link up as well as the fighter escorts and the bombers who would drop ordinance. During this time I dozed off. I don't know how long I was out but I must have needed it. I was awakened by the air force guy racing back and forth yelling "we've been compromised, they know we are coming!" " They are drawing small arms and grenades, we've been compromised!". Now personally, I see no need to tell me this. Does it make a fucking difference? They might know we are coming when the 500 lb bomb drops or they might figure out when Spectre starts spewing death out of its mini gun, call me crazy but they are going to know we are coming and I don't need to know this. It seemed my head ache had gone, but at this point I was still wondering the wisdom in all this.

Then things got calm and in the glow of the red lights I was able to look into the eyes of the men across from me and to my left and to my right and I saw greatness! I saw men who had trained for this very mission for years and I knew at that moment we would succeed and I would be responsible for leading a part of this success. I was at peace and honestly, I was ready.

I remember encouraging my boys to drink water, going over some last minute details about the objective and the rally point prior, they were both sharp, quick learners, my job was easy.

I don't remember anything else until we hooked up. Ah, yes all that ammo we hijacked was now weighing very heavy on our lower backs. I would say the average weight was about 75 lbs, some more, some less but a lot more than we shoukd have been jumping in.

I remember the door opening and the stale, hot, humid smell of jungle air rushing in. I don't remember much yelling or screaming, just the plane rocking side to side once or twice and then the familiar sound of the static lines on the anchor line cable and the jumpmasters yelling "GO! GO!GO!". I wanted out of the bird. This is a very vulnerable time and all combat jumps to include this one have had Rangers who get shot in the plane. I did not want to be THAT guy.

A Ranger in front of me fell down and I did not think he was going to get up (that ammo again) the problem is, the longer he can't get out, the further I'm getting from my objective. I think he crawled to the jumpmaster and was shoved out. And then I was out.... Into the darkness.

So between my last entry and now, I've had time to go to Savannah and meet with many of my Brothers who were on this mission. What a great time, with so many great stories. Memories of others, refreshing memories of mine, refreshing memories of theirs. I recently received an email from one of the participants and while I would love to take credit for this, I think he says it best:

"Perhaps an understatement but Panama was such a significant event in our lives implanting memories that will stay with us forever, as the memories of this 20 year reunion....

As one goes through life, hundreds if not thousands of acquaintances are made throughout ones lifetime with only a handful of true friends coming out on the other side, friends like these men, who stepped out into the blackness of the night sky and into the belly of the beast, with only their sword at their hand. All Rangers, past, present, and future. Men who were and are willing to put their lives on the line so that others may live, in somewhat relative peace and freedom.

Men like these who served their Country and asked nothing in return, true friends of mine…."

This reunion was bright spot in what is traditionally a very dark month for me, I can't wait till the 25th reunion!

Now where was I....

Traditionally, after the opening shock the "ride" to the ground is quite peaceful. It gives you time to orient your yourself to the object and the rally point prior to. By this point in my career I took pride in always being the first in my squad to be first to the rally point. The fact that I was now carrying an M16 and a compass versus my younger years of carrying an M60 made that task much easier. I felt it was imperative that I get there first on this night, I did not want my boys wondering where I was.

The opening shock was a bit more violent than usual, perhaps the Air Force had the proverbial pedal to the metal so they could get out of the kill zone? Jumping from 500 feet gave me very little time to orient myself but I did see our objective and there were some flames from the AC130 gun runs. I had just released my ruck sack and was reaching to undo a leg strap when I hit the concrete run way, just south of center line. Looking back, I was glad we got to the ground so fast, there was a .50 caliber machine gun firing pretty much center line of the runway. I could hear it and see some tracers but I never had time to figure out where he was shooting. If I had, I probably would have been terrified. All he had to do was traverse left some and I would have landed right in his line of fire.

Now, I survived in the military through humor. While the next part of the story was going on, it was not so funny, in fact I was almost a bit panicked, but looking back, it was hilarious.

I always knew if ever did jump a "hot" drop zone, my "silk" or parachute would land right on top of me. Its like being a fish caught in a net due to all the suspension lines on the parachute. The end up getting tangled on all your equipment, it had happened several times in training and its just a bitch to get out of.

After landing I looked up and here it came, thats right, my T10 parachute landed right on top of me. So, I'm laying there trying to get out of the harness,with the parachute over my body. I could hear the gun fire from down the runway and knew that if I started thrashing around I would just get more tangled. Now, here is some other odd thing that I was scared / convinced of, I was terrified that somewhere during this operation I was going to get hacked up by a Panamanian with a machete. Don't ask ,where this idea came from but I was sure of it..

So, while laying there wating for the hacking to commence, I almost forgot a very important part of this operation, put your fucking weapon in operation! Yes, that way I can at least fire rounds while trapped under this parachute, so that the friendlys can find my chopped up body. I had taped a 30 round magazine to the butt stock of my weapon for easy access. Upon removing the tape, every last round shot out of the end of the spring loaded magazine onto the ground! This was suddenly becoming a comedy of errors. Here I was trapped under my parachute, my first magazine now empty on the ground, a .50 cal skipping rounds my direction and I'm waiting for the whistle of a machete to be the last sound I hear.

I managed to get another magazine out and lock and load, I also managed to get out of my parachute, I was blessed with an uncanny sense of direction so I did not need to shoot an azimuth, I knew which direction the objective was. At this moment, there was a vehicle headed my direction. To my left at this moment, Steve Ellison, sat up and fired 3 rounds from his M24 sniper rifle through the windshield of this truck. It came, slowly, to a halt. Now, I'm not sure if they fired a round or what happened next, but Rangers from 360 degrees opened up on this vehicle like a circular ambush. One problem, some were shooting in my direction! At this point I decided nothing on the drop zone was safe and I headed towards the objective. More humor, we were supposed to pull our chutes off the main runway so the air land package did not suck them up the jet engines. As I began to pull mine, someone pulled it the other direction and said "this is my chute", I pulled back and said "its mine", they pulled again and said "no its not, it's mine!". I said "fuck it you can have both of them" and ran towards the objective. I never found out who was pulling on the other end.

All humor aside, there is a time during one of these operations when it is pure animal instinct for survival. It is when you leave and head to the objective rally point. You are by your self, in the darkness. You don't know where your team members are, you don't know who or what or how many machetes are between you and where you are going. The hair of your neck is standing up and every sense is heightened. I will tell you that it is a feeling like no other and I believe what turns us all into adrenaline junkies.

The aerial / satelltie photos did not do the ditch on the south side of the taxi way any justice. It was far deeper and much steeper than I imagined. I honestly did not think I was going to get out of it on the way to my objective. Now, I was in the best shape of my life at this point, but all that ammo I had stuffed in my ruck sack was just so heavy that I was literally on my hands and knees trying to get out of that thing. I would finally, make it and in the distance I could see the green chem lite which signalled the entry to the assembly area. I was out in the open, and had to cross more tarmac to get there. THERE, was other warriors, THERE was perceived safety, until this point I had not come across one other C.co Ranger headed the same direction. At this moment, SSG Porters squad was firing up some folks in the hanger and the little birds were making some gun runs, it was still quite chaotic, but THERE is were I needed to be. I was soaking wet from the humidity as well as the weight of the ruck sack, and my head ache was coming back. I sprinted the last 75 meters to get there, gave the running password and headed off in my clock direction.

It has been said that the best of combat plans will turn to shit once the first round in anger is fired. I can say we have done 100's of objective rally points, and I don't remember one being this screwed up. The elephant grass was over your head, so every movement you did not know who it was until there they were. The first thing I saw was our 1sg taping, with 100 mph tape, IR tape on a kids head. We wore IR tape on our helmets so our aerial platforms could recognize us from above, and this kid had lost his helmet on the jump. Next, two LT's were fighting over who was in charge and I was early to the assembly area, I guess they thought perhaps the commander had been whacked since he was not there yet. I don't mean speaking in loud voices, I mean almost coming to blows, pushing and shoving. It was quite bizarre.

Eddie Noland had landed on his ruck sack and by landed I mean, like between his legs and his BDU's were ripped and one of his balls was literally swollen like grape fruit and he kept telling everyone to "look at the size of my balls". His squad leader was bitching at him because he was late to the assembly area and he just kept saying "but Sergeant, look at my balls". My boys would arrive, 3rd squad would be 100% up. But the over all scene in the assembly area, you just can't make it up.

Somewhere enroute to the objective, I heard the call over the radio, "1 KIA, Markwell, James W." It was sobering moment but you had to stay in the game, we were moving to assault positions.

There is the mission on objective pig to discuss, the slaughtering of "Fred" the water buffalo, a mission involving a Datsun B210, myself, 3 Rangers and a bottle of brandy, kicking doors in Panama city and a vision in a peach dress, but perhaps I'll save those for the book I'll never write...

Great post. We (C/3/75) were down the runway at the International airport terminal doing our part. We too shot at the "Follow Me" truck on our runway and somehow he managed to surivived the 360 ambush and made it back to the terminal area. One will never forget that elephant grass in the ditches along the runway/taxiway. Myself with my 90mm did the good old dead reckoning to the gunfire and ended up at our rally point. A BTDT here who can write need to write a book before next year's 25th anniversary. A toast to all OJC veterans.

Good story, RangerJurena! Had y'all trained in Panama in the years prior? They used to have JOTC there, and I was "entitled" to several iterations of it.

Hmm, good thing there was no quiz at the end.

Yes, before ( as mentioned in the OP) and again after. Pretty sure MC2W from here went on round II, I was TDY, perhaps instructing at West Point or it could have been BNCOC.

And proving that we loved to cross the hard / stupid line on a regular basis, just after the JOTC Cadre had told us that the worst thing to wear in the jungle was a kevlar helmet, good Ol' George D Ponder 1sg, 1 each. Informed us that should we be caught without said kevlar on our heads, well, "Bubba, you'll be dealing with me....."

Stan Goff--- I didn't know (or remember) that he had gone to 1st Batt before he went on to other things. I do remember that after he left 2d Batt A Co, (3rd 'toon, IIRC) that he went to Ft. Sherman in some capacity. We were down there for JOTC, my second time, had to be, and he strolled up to a small group of us on break from something and we shot the breeze for a little bit. I remember that as a pretty amazing small-worldism for a kid who grew up in small towns in Kansas (me.)

That is a pretty compelling piece, Ranger J. Thanks for it.

__________________
There's a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done... Z

Stan Goff--- I didn't know (or remember) that he had gone to 1st Batt before he went on to other things. I do remember that after he left 2d Batt A Co, (3rd 'toon, IIRC) that he went to Ft. Sherman in some capacity. We were down there for JOTC, my second time, had to be, and he strolled up to a small group of us on break from something and we shot the breeze for a little bit. I remember that as a pretty amazing small-worldism for a kid who grew up in small towns in Kansas (me.)

That is a pretty compelling piece, Ranger J. Thanks for it.

Actually, he was probably doing other things when he ran into you. I know that he also did some instructing at West Point and had a break in service before he ended up with us, I THINK. His was an interesting career for sure.

Left us to go to SF Selection, ended up as the SF Medic at 3/75 / Regiment during Somalia and was run out of country for being too vocal.